Evidence
by BurntSugar
Summary: Sam has reason to believe Phil has cheated on her. Can she prove it? Does she even want to? She may be rubbish at relationships, but she is good at her job, and that's what she has to treat this as; just any other investigation.


She was a police officer; a detective. She was trained to look for clues; and this was no different; she just had to be objective.

She put her key into the lock and let herself into the house. She knew Phil wouldn't be in, not at this time of the day, and anyway his car hadn't been on the drive. She decided to start in the living room; she walked in and looked around. It wasn't exactly the way she'd left it; there were pizza boxes spread out across the coffee table, beer cans too; nothing obvious, but then he was too clever for that. He was a detective too; he'd know what she'd look for; what he should hide.

After that cursory glance around the room, she sat down on the edge of the sofa, and slid her hand down the side. She found a pen; and some change. And a lipstick.

She felt her heart pounding as the anger, and betrayal she'd forced herself to keep at bay swept through her veins. As quickly as the emotion had arrived though she silenced it. She took a calming breath, and realized with no small ounce of relief, that she could not entirely count it out as one of her own.

The kitchen was reasonably tidy, not surprising since he'd apparently been surviving on take-away the week she'd been away. The dining room was too, although the garden was not, a glance through the window told her, and she wondered what Phil had done to scare off the latest gardener.

She made her way back through the house to the foot of the stairs, and then up to the top of them. Bathroom first; mostly clean, but with a fine layer of dust, but then it was a room neither of them used that often.

Their bedroom next; she'd been putting it off, but she was quickly running out of rooms. She walked across the hallway, sparing only a glance for both the spare room, and the office. She forced herself not to think; she was a detective at what might be a crime scene; there was no need to get emotional. No time either; there was every possibility that Phil might be coming home for lunch. If he decided to today, then he could be back at any moment, and she needed to be finished by then.

Ignoring the pain in her stomach, the slight pressure behind her eyes; she pushed open the door, pausing just slightly before looking inside, not sure exactly what she was expecting to see. She glanced around the room, and then rolling her eyes at herself walked straight over to the bed.

It hadn't been made this morning; she pulled back the covers. She could smell him on them; shampoo, and sweat, and the aftershave that lingered on everything. She couldn't pick up anything else but that didn't mean anything. The sheets had been changed since she'd left; that was the most damning thing; it was only ever her that changed the sheets.

When they'd moved in together she'd been insistent that she wasn't going to clean up after him; he'd somehow survived twenty years without his mother, so he didn't need a replacement. She'd compromised on this, but only because it became necessary; Phil would sleep in the same ones indefinitely if she didn't step in. The sheets being changed was suspicious; but circumstantial. It would never stand up in court.

She was right next to the door to the en-suite now, she was by no means finished with the bedroom, but the en-suite seemed somehow a lot less daunting. It was probably the messiest room in the house, probably on a tie with the living room; dirty towels littered the floor, curled up with his work clothes, and a pair of jeans. She stepped across to pick up one of the shirts; lipstick was too much of a cliché, but she looked for it anyway; she brought it to her face, but all she could smell was stale aftershave, what might have been beer, and what was unmistakeably Phil.

She moved back into the bedroom; the armchair in the corner housed a suit-jacket, presumably the one he'd worn yesterday. She walked over to it purposefully, but then stopped short of picking it up. Searching her own house; her own bedroom, was one thing. Searching his pockets she felt was crossing a line. An abuse of trust. If she was sure he was guilty of the same thing, then maybe she would have felt justified, but in that case she wouldn't have needed to look.

She turned away from it, and in doing so caught sight of herself in the mirror. She walked over to it; she ran her palms over her face, and into her hair; she rubbed the dark marks beneath her eyes. She's hardly slept last night, or last few nights actually. That was no excuse; she'd never done anything like this before, not since "Ian" had turned into "Glen" and the pregnancy test line turned into two. That had been for her baby, and she'd sworn she'd never do it again. This wasn't her.

She took one more quick look around the room. No condom wrappers, no wine stains, or other more damning ones. She took one more glance in the mirror, and steeling herself, she left the room. When she got downstairs she went straight to the phone; she wanted to do this before she lost her nerve.

After she was put on hold she glanced at the clock. Chances are he wouldn't be there; he'd either be out for lunch, or he'd be on his way home. She needed to try; without the benefit of anything solid to prove her suspicions she now felt strange begin here. He wasn't expecting her until tomorrow, and she couldn't help but think that he would take one look at her and know that she'd come back early to catch him out. Maybe she was being paranoid, about a lot of things, despite what it sometimes felt like, he could _not _read her mind, but she couldn't help but think he would know what she'd done.

His voice startled her out of her daze. He seemed happy to hear from her, and yet more doubts crept their way into her mind. She told him she was back, and he sounded pleased; he said he'd missed her, whispered it she knew to save his reputation amongst his colleagues. He said he wouldn't be long, and that he'd bring food. He hung-up with the words, "I love you," her saying "Me too," as of it were she surrounded by people.

After she'd put down the phone she walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table; she rested her head in her hands. She'd been so sure, and the thing was she knew her doubts were justified; this was Phil Hunter she was living with. He had cheated on every woman he'd ever been with. Except her. That she knew of, and there was always time. When they'd gotten back together they'd had a long talk; she'd made him promise not to hurt her. He'd made her promise that she was going to give them a proper go. No more waiting for the other shoe to drop; the way she had the entirety of their first relationship. She'd tried; she really had, and to his credit he'd never given her any cause not to trust him. But still, he _was_ Phil Hunter.

She could go months with out thinking it, and then there it was. It crept up on her, and she found she couldn't get it out of her head; every woman they passed on the street; every female name at his office. She sometimes felt like she was going mad.

She wanted to trust him, the way she did as a friend; but the problem had always been that there were two Phils; the one had looked after her when her daughter had gone missing, that had believed her, and stood by her; when everyone else thought she was going mad. The man that had been there with her that night in Romania, and the day after that; when they'd thought they were going to die; who had held her hand, and looked into her eyes, determined to be strong for her. Then there was the other one; the one that had been married to Cindy, and had cheated on her continuously; that had a reputation to rival that of Don Juan. A reputation he had earned, and been proud of. As much as she wanted to pretend otherwise she couldn't pick and choose; she was in a relationship with both of them.

It had been the second night that she'd been away that she'd called him, and heard the distance in his voice; the deep timbre that at first she thought meant she'd woken him up; it was only after she put the phone down that she realized what he really sounded like. It was the voice she'd been in bed with him enough times to recognize. Her emotions in those moments had swept past her one after the other. Jealousy, sadness, anger, and fear. She would have been ashamed to admit it, but it was fear that was the guiding force. She was terrified that her whole world might be about to be torn apart. If he had cheated on her, every bone on her body would have forced her to leave him, but she would have so badly wanted to stay.

She'd never felt like this about anyone before; she'd never come close, and hadn't that been the point of Hugh's little game. To prove she wasn't capable of it. Of course she had proved him wrong; with Abi, but she was her daughter, and that was different, and not really what Hugh had meant. He'd hated her because she'd never needed _him_. What was that she'd said to him? In her life; in her work; or in her bed. Well, and then there was Phil.

He was the worst possible man for her to fall for, in a lot of ways. She did need him, and that was what terrified her; because Phil was more than just her live-in boyfriend. He was her partner, her best friend. The only man in the world she'd ever even half-way trusted.

She didn't know how long she'd been sitting there when she heard his car in the drive-way, and then his key in the lock. He called her name, and a moment later found her in the kitchen. His face lit up at the sight of her, and despite herself she melted. She'd missed him, and he loved her. He pulled her to her feet, and hugged her to him.

She'd intended to talk to him about everything that she'd thought the past few days, but as he kissed her, and pulled her toward the bedroom she realized she didn't need to. She knew that if they were going to work she was going to have to trust him; she let everything else go.


End file.
